O England praise the name of God
by Sohalia Talitha
Summary: For all L is a poor armchair psychologist, he's the only one Light hasn't managed to run circles round yet. On narcissism, time, and bonfires.


Disclaimer: Deathnote is the property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. Any parts of this story that you recognise from their work belongs to them.

~*~*~*~*~*~

O England praise the name of God

That kept thee from this heavy rod!

But though this demon e'er be gone,

His evil now be ours upon!

~*~*~*~*~*~

He's been here two weeks now and it's driving him insane. L, for all his genius, is a terrible therapist. They sit opposite one another, at either end of a long couch, L's toes curling in the soft cotton, his own fists clenching slowly around a cushion. For all L is a poor armchair psychologist, he's the only one Light hasn't managed to run circles round yet. The other psychologists have decided that he has a Narcissistic Personality Disorder. He told them it was unfair - he really is as smart as he says he is, and he proved it to them by tying them in knots with their own words. But when he complains to L about it, he smiles infuriatingly innocently and says "But Raito-kun displays many characteristics other than a grandiose sense of self-importance."

Sometimes he enjoys their sessions, when he can distract L enough to hold a proper conversation, discussing everything from the death penalty to the merits of marzipan. They never agree, as if taking the same side would be a defeat in itself, and more than once Light has argued with conviction in favour of a subject he couldn't care less for.

Once, last week, they played badminton in the expansive living room, with the couch as a net and the space between the fireplace and piano a field.

Between the boredom and the confusion he's almost tearing his hair out in frustration - being treated for a problem he can't remember having is ridiculous. L says he can't be released because he's too dangerous to free, that he might find a way to repeat his actions - even without knowing what his actions were. It seems insane though - he doesn't want to kill anyone, and the idea makes him sick to his stomach.

Two days ago he woke up laughing, sat at the bureau in his room, names carved so deeply into the wood they had to replace his desk.

L says he was Kira. He doesn't remember killing people. He knows it might be true though - there are glaring holes in his memory, little pieces that don't add up - Misa arriving on his doorstep unannounced, the bizarre caution he took to conceal his diary, and the fuzzy memory of a man with black hair dying in a train station, a woman mourning in the snow.

Six days ago he asked for his memory back, but L said with the knowledge in his memories returned to him he'd be dangerous, and impossible to "treat". He'd been so furious he'd managed to break L's nose. He felt ashamed afterwards, and on closer examination alarmed, because he was more embarrassed by his loss of self control than by the sore looks L is shooting him surreptitiously around a cold compress. Part of him wonders when he became more worried about his appearances than other peoples well being. The other knows he has always been like this. He is justified - if L insists on acting like he's a patient in a mental hospital he deserves nothing but scorn.

It's funny, but he can't remember much before he left school either. Everything focuses with pin like sharpness on those couple of months he spent chained and confused and more alive than he'd ever been before. Everything else blends together in a gentle fuzziness, all focusing on L, L, L...

He wonders if all his memories are creeping away from him. At first, he spends hours counting out the people he knows, going over memories of his mother, father, sister. His friends, whoever they were. He writes memories down in a journal, jotting down new ones as he thinks of them and checking to make sure none of them are lost.

Once, just once, he asked about his family. L won't tell him if his family know why he's here, if he's really gone or not, but he tells Light they are well, that Sayu is missing him, that his father is recovering from an unspecified illness (Light thinks it's probably stress) and that his mother is still smiling, if a little sadly now, but that they are moving on now.

He loses interest after a while and doesn't ask again.

Time passes, and eventually (sooner, rather than later) Light comes to realise that remembering people he will never see again is pointless. He is never, ever going back.

The more he thinks about it, the more he decides that L is keeping him here for some other reason. L has always been more interested in the game than in justice. It's been obvious from the start, but he's been so caught up in his frustration he's not had time to think about why he's here.

He's determined not to prove L right though, with his ridiculous theories about personality disorders. So he investigates his own thoughts carefully. Is it delusional to believe that he's being kept here for some other purpose? He has a terrible suspicion that L is keeping him because he doesn't want him dead, and sometimes L looks so lonely Light wishes it were true.

He knows it's all wishful thinking on his part - L is happy in his own company, even if Ryuzaki might not have been.

So many questions remain unanswered - "If I am Kira, how did I kill all those people?" "If I was so clever, how did I lose?" "If I was that evil, why am I still alive?" L ignores most of them obliquely, and tells him he'll find out when he's more stable. He argues that he is stable, and he will never be more stable until his unknown issues are resolved.

Things are at their worst when he's on his own, with nothing but the stonework for company. It's a beautiful house with a single floor, a long arching hallway and beautiful stonework - high, beamed ceilings and stained glass windows, all English architecture in the style of Pugin - grand and tall and gothic. Some times he feels like he's living in a church. But he's not seen the outside of the house - he doesn't even know if he's in a compound, or if there are buildings near by, or even if he's living in a carefully constructed lie. All he has is the fuzzy impression he gets through the patterned or frosted windows, and one glimpse he caught as L came through the front door.

He feels like is brain is slowly beginning to atrophy inside his head. The library is stocked with interesting books, but he can't seem to settle himself to reading. Sometimes he looks at the case files L sends him, which entertain him for a little while.

But in the end, there is nothing - nothing to aim for, no target to reach no test to prepare for. The weeks stretch ahead of him, behind him. Time passes like a snail, with nothing to mark them but L's gradually more infrequent visits, and the delivery that comes every sunday morning at four o'clock with his meals for the next week. He's learned to tell if L is coming by the contents of the pudding menu.

He's fairly sure he's in England, the near constant patter of rain on the smoked glass roof of the hallway and the constant chill in the air is telling. But the weather, the food, the boredom, everything condenses into grey nothing.

After a while, even the force of his conviction that he's done nothing wrong begins to dwindle. Though their "therapy" sessions are less often now, they are lifeless and dull. L watches him, still frowning, toes curled, eyes wide. He seems disappointed and Light feels proud he recognised it, feels a little flair of the self possessed energy he's lost over the last few months.

L invites him to a game of chess in the kitchen. It's the most exciting thing that's happened in months, and when they're done Light remembers the shadow of fire in his mind.

He asks again for his memories and L smiles in an infuriating way, blinking his fish eyes at Light, and Light can see the fire in L's eyes too, and for once he feels a little hope.

L still tells him it's too dangerous. He doesn't say no though.

The nights are drawing in now. The next time L comes he changes the clocks, winding time back an hour.

"Silly Raito-kun," he says, perching precariously on a stool. "You forgot to change the clocks."

"I didn't know we were in a daylight saving time zone" he replies coolly, no matter what he suspected about the location. Time ceased to matter a long time ago, night and day as periods of time when the murky colours of the windows are either bright or dull.

When night pours in through the window (one hour earlier than before) L opens the back door into a dark, high walled garden. A bonfire is piled in the centre, with Guy Fawkes sat in state on his pyre. They light it as a nearby church bells toll six, and sit in the roaring heat on the dewy grass, eating toffee apples and bantering around cemented teeth.

Light revels in the blaze and watches mute and envious, as straw ignites and the guy burns brilliant and blazing in the heat, glorified in his heresy.

Later, beside the smouldering embers, sipping hot chocolate, he feels something brush against his palm. The fire consumes him. 


End file.
